Her Lost Soldier
by marlynnknowsbest101
Summary: A girl is desperate to contact her dead lover. She resorts to magic in order to be reunited with him. Pairings may/may not be what is expected, so read no matter which couples you support ; . Rated M for violence/language/sexual/ themes and racism. Please R&R.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own the TD series and any of the TD series characters. **

**I am not sure I will continue with this story. I will only continue if someone asks. I am not sure where I will lead this story or how long I will make it, but whatever I do with it I hope it will entertain you! **

**Explanations will be in the Author's Note at the bottom of the page.**

**Enjoy :3**

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**- Her Lost Soldier -**

**Prologue **

Slowly closing my eyes I inhaled deeply. Crisp autumn air never went stale even when the season grew cold and neared expiring. I reached toward the window sill opening the panes a bit wider, enjoying the cool breeze playing along the hair on my arm. Goosebumps puckered along my skin and tingles ran along my shoulder blades and down my spine.

"Ah, this is magic"

Picking up the silver brush that sat on my vanity, I held it in my hand for a moment. As I sat on the velvet stool in front of the vanity, I ran my fingers over the intricate detail on the brush's handle. My mother's, and her mother's, and her mother's mother's fingers had once grazed upon the same details before running the boar bristles through their locks of thick, curled hair.

I hummed a tune as I slowly brushed my hair one hundred times. After I finished this nightly ritual, I reached for the red apple that sat by my brush and twisted its stem three times singing the same tune. I blew out all the candles around me, save for two, and stared into the vanity's mirror. I waited a minute. Then I waited two minutes. I sat in front of that mirror for a quarter of an hour before sighing. _Will his face ever appear in my mirror? _I've waited so long for his gaze.

Looking back to those years I had with him I feel foolish for not accepting his proposal of marriage. I was so conceited and haughty. Over-confident and too self-righteous for my own good. I still am.

"He may have not come tonight, but at least I will look good when he does."

When the war took what was dear to me, I had an epiphany like the angels themselves had come down and preached the truth to my very ears. I had to change. If it was not the war that took him from me, it would have been me who pushed him away.

I am still the same person I once was, but I do like to say I am much more subdued. I am still a stickler for the rules and quite stubborn, but I am able to control the harshness that once was bound to leap out of my mouth and stab the victim of my cruelties. Am I nice? No. Am I a Bitch? Yes. Has empathy and friendship made its way into my life?

I would say so.

Once I wanted to be completely independent (such an odd trait for a woman of the times, but I believe that is what attracted him to me). Too independent is no good. A woman, or any person for that matter, needs people to lean on for support.

"Who would want somebody who is needy and clingy anyway? Independence is a good thing…right Lune?" My white tuff-haired cat gave me a glance before lazily lounging the chaise in front of my bed. "I knew you would agree with me, _mon petit chou_!"

I finished humming the tune. Glancing at the miniature grandfather clock in the corner of my room, I decided it was time for bed. Sleep is what keeps me looking young. Without it, I would look like the ragged hag that my true age would suggest I am.

I slide into bed and twisted under the quilted comforter until I found a comfortable position. I fluffed my pillows and laid my head down, facing away from my window. Then I turned toward the window. I then shifted in bed a bit more.

"Ugh, this is pointless. Lune, I do not think the Sandman will be visiting me tonight." I received no response from my cat. Looking at the clock once more, the hands read witching time. "It seems to be a perfect time for that visit I have been meaning to make. I wonder if Hattie and Etta are too busy with customers tonight? Well, if they are, they will _have_ to make time for me." With that, I flung the quilt off my body, leaped out of my nightgown and into something decent, and headed out of my house. I need answers that my tricks and spell aren't delivering. It is time to go to Hattie and Etta's shop. I must if they can help me contact _him_.

I will be reunited with my lost soldier.

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**I know it's confusing, but if anyone would like me to continue the story I will clear things up quickly.**

**Let me just say that this story is AU. The present time of the story is late 1910's, early 1920's. I really want to try and make the story as historically accurate as possible… that would also mean changing TD character names to names that where common during the period of their birth. If many are opposed to this I will leave their names as they are. Also, if I am writing anything historically incorrect, please PM me so I can fix my mistake. **

**Other TD characters will be come into the story if I do continue it.**

**I think that will be the end of my Author's Note :3 Thanks for reading!**

**~ Marlynn**


	2. Chapter 1

**Hi Everyone! Sorry I'm updating late, and only giving you this much of a chapter. I promise more will come, I'm just not so sure when, hee hee.**

**Also, I just wanted to put out a warning for the following chapter. It includes the "n-word" and other racist themes. I will change the rating to M.**

**Read my author's note at the bottom explaining some things in the text.**

**Enjoy!**

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**-Her Lost Soldier-**

**Chapter One**

"I'm a dumb Dora."

Who the hell goes walking at one in the morning and does not bring a shawl? Me, of course. I wonder if going to Hattie and Etta's is even worth my time. Those two sure seemed convincing when they said they could contact the dead (they did, after all, have a booming business utilizing this talent), though I had an itch that they may actually be frauds.

Oh well! I'll find out tonight.

I've got to wish on a lucky star that those gals are the real deal, or I'm out of luck. Up North it's hard to find actual fortune tellers or real witches who know the difference between a voodoo love spell and a black magic curse. I keep on forgetting this isn't New Orleans. But Etta and Hattie seem alright, and even if they are frauds, they have an aura that suggests otherwise. If they can help me contact…

My thoughts stop. In front of me are two goons with drunken smiles perched below their sausage noses. The bigger one has a sort of gleam in his eye that I don't like too much. He slowly approaches me like a puppet whose puppeteer isn't good with controlling the strings. He stands a foot before me and a foot above me. I look up, and with the stink of moonshine on his tongue he says, "Lookee here Tommy Boy! We got o' selves a lil' birdie. Ain't she a doll?" Tommy responded with a stupid nod that continued a bit too long. The big one stared me in the eye, and directing his speech toward me, he said, "Listen, baby, how bout old Tommy and me take you to where you needs to be goin'? Afta' that, maybe you'd like to come home with us… just tell yer daddy you had a couple o' friends that needed meeting." With this said he lunged down at me, clumsily making a feel for my body. I screamed and tried pushing him away but his big bear paws kept grabbing at my shoulders. I found myself struggling more and more as he kept getting a better hold on my arms and waist.

Then it all stopped. The big one was no longer making grabs or feels, but loosely held onto my wrists. I took my chance and yanked my hands free of his grasp. The big one was staring at something, puzzled. Then all of a sudden, "Mickey! What are you doin' here Mick?"

My head whipped toward the direction the big one was staring towards. My heart dropped into my belly and I felt my knees buckled until I hit the dirt. Strangled sounds were coming out of my parted lips, but words refused to escape. It was him!

"Billy and Tommy. What are you boys doing out here with that Creole?"

Saying I am shocked is an understatement. How does he know I'm Creole? How dare he even say such a thing with such, such vulgarity! This isn't my soldier! This isn't my love! But he looks just like him. He has the same eyes, the same hair, the same build. He has the same everything! Except for knowing me…

"Cree-ole?" The big one, apparently going by Billy, stretched the word between his jaws, as if he doesn't understand it's meaning. "What do ya mean? Her? Creole?" He said pointing a finger in my face.

"Yes, her, Billy."

"But I only thought they's be down South."

"Yeeahh!" This came from Tommy, the first thing he said, even if it was unintelligible.

Mickey looked at me. I wish I could say his gaze held a special meaning, that he had been reincarnated and come back for me. That we would finally be together. He would forgive me for all that I said, and take me into his arms, and… "So what are you doing up here Nigger?" My heart shattered.

Mickey went on, "You sure do look like you could be white. I can even tell now, when you're on the ground and covered in dirt, that you feel your entitled, as if you were white. So tell me girl, did you think you could fit in up here with that dark skin and those thick lips? Some people may be fooled, but I know what you are."

I didn't know what to say. So I got up and ran. I ran past the big one and the stupid one. I ran down the rode and into the bush. I even started running into a stream, imaging hearing dogs chasing me through Carolina swamps. I stopped and heaved for breath. Hot tears poured down my cheeks and I shook violently trying to remember where I am and that I'm no longer in any danger. My head is pounding and I feel another episode coming. I reach out to a tree branch and my hand slides against the bark, cutting the side of my wrist. I fall. I feel the blood from my wrist trickle onto my belly like the water trickling down Brook's creek. The blood feels colder and colder as black circles obscure my vision.

Then I see nothing.

Everything is still black, but I can smell something I haven't smelled for years. Cayenne and crawfish linger in my mouth until I realize, "Mmm…crawfish étouffée, like how Mama used to make." My eyes flutter open. I'm no longer in the woods, but in a house I had lived in as a little girl.

As I get up off the wooden floor, I stretch my arms, accidentally hitting a vase off a lace covered table.

_Crack. _"Courtney! What was that?"

A little girl with long brown hair and a dull cream dress ran past me, as if she was not aware of my presence. "_Je ne sais pas Maman_," the little girl cried out.

"Well go and see what it was. And while your at it, Courtney, go and wash up. Dinner is almost ready."

The girl turned around and her dark brown eyes widened, "_Oh non!_ Mama, your vase broke!"

In stormed the woman, her eyes wide and angry. "What! How did it brake!"

It was my mother. And the little girl was me.

"I do not know Mama, I just found it broken."

I remember this happening. I remember my mother getting mad, blaming me (technically she was not wrong when she accused me of braking the vase). When I convinced her I had not done it, she blamed the cat.

"That dumb little cat of yours. He is the one who broke my _grand-mère's _vase."

I remember disagreeing, telling her it was the loa. Maybe they were asked by Mambo Caroline to come and scare us back to New Orleans. Mambo Caroline was upset Mama and I left for South Carolina.

"Courtney, we had to leave New Orleans. We will have to leave South Carolina, too."

"But Mama, what if they put a curse on us? What if they ask loa Marinette to come after us and punish us?"

"Do you have your bundle of boar bristle?" The younger me nodded. "And I have my boar bristle brush, so we will have no curse cast upon us. And Marinette will not come for us, we sacrificed the last of our livestock at the previous ritual. All you have to worry about is…did you hear a knock?" My mother turned away from the vase and scurried to the window by the front door. She parted the curtain and gasped, "Courtney, hide under the table! Make sure you are covered by the lace." Younger Courtney got to her knees, and careful of the glass shards, she crawled under the table. I was still watching this all happen as if I were only an audience member at a play, not there but there.

My mother opened the door and greeted who ever was on the other side. She invited him in. I remember trembling under that table, having no clue who entered the house and why I had to hide from him. I had my hands wrapped around the legs of the table, creating a clammy mess within my palms. My hands shook. My biggest mistake.

"Josephine, why is your table shaking?"

"What are you talking about Mr. Guthrie? Oh, you must be so tired from working on your papa's farm. Listen, I'm cooking myself some crawfish étouffée. It's real popular back home. You should be my dinner guest tonight," Mr. Guthrie and Mama walked off into the kitchen. I knew what would happen next, but I still felt the anxiety and suspense clutch my insides, refusing to let loose.

I already saw the young me poke her nose from under the tablecloth. I can practically hear her thoughts spoken out loud. _'I'll make a run for it! Mama and the man are in the kitchen. I'll run to the backyard, no one will notice. No one will notice.'_ Then it all happened. I saw myself make the one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Mr. Guthrie was not stupid. He knew my mother was trying to redirect his attention. He kept an eye on that table. He was waiting, waiting for me to show my face. As I bolted from under that table, Mr. Guthrie ran to me and grabbed my by the back of the collar. He slammed my back against the wall. My mother ran out of the kitchen screaming at him to stop touching me. He screamed back, "What is it! Why is this negro child hiding under your table?"

My mother screamed back that I was hers. That I am her child and for him to never touch me if he valued his life.

"So you fornicated with a black man," Mr. Guthrie drawled grimly in a matter-of-fact tone. "This," he said pointing at me, "is the outcome of your sin."

My mother glared at him then said, "It is a sin when _two _people of color make love to one another?"

I look at her in shock. I have heard her say it before, but it always shocked me when my mother would admit that she isn't only white. Her papa was a white gentleman apart of New Orleans' aristocracy. Her mother was a black and Chitimacha Indian slave. My grandmother was sold to my grandfather's family. As my mother grew up, my grandfather noticed that she did not look like her brothers. Her skin was light, slightly tanned-looking. She had black hair, but it was fine in texture. Her figure was slim and she had 'white features'.

Life is easier when one passes as white. There was no need for running, no need to hide, no need to swallow your pride and let people call you names or push you around. When your white you can do anything you want without getting hurt for it. That is why my mother wanted to hide me when we went to South Carolina. If people knew I was her daughter, they would know that she was with a man of color or maybe even figure out that she was only part white. We could get run out of town, or worse.

"Mr. Guthrie, leave my house."

"Don't tell _me_ what to do, nigger."

Mr. Guthrie turned away from my mother and walked to the door. He turned around and spit on child Courtney and her dull, cream dress. He gave one last look to my mother, silently daring her to say anything. When he was satisfied by her lack of a response, he turned and walked out the door.

Watching this scene brought shame to me. I ruined my mother's life. It's too hard watch, knowing that my stupid mistake cost my mother so much, I want to just run, get out of this dream.

My mother walked over to her daughter, and wiped the spit off her cheek. She then began to weep.

After some time, Mother went to her room and put her valuables in a small trunk. She then began filling a potato sack with food for the younger me to carry. The last thing she put in the potato sack was her silver hair brush.

Later that night I followed my mother and my younger self down a familiar dirt road. I followed them into the woods until I heard the noise of scuffling feet, shouting men, and dogs. It was the group of men who had come for my mother and I. I saw my mother take the child version of myself into the woods to hide. I knew where they would go, so I stayed behind to watch what would happen. Most of what I remember of that night is me pressed against my mothers chest, silently sobbing. Afterwards, though, I was always curious of what had happened to our home, considering that I never went back. So, I turned away from the woods and walked back to my old house in South Carolina. There was a mob of about fifteen men. Most of them were holding torches, some held guns. One man, the leader of the group, Mr. Guthrie, held two long ropes in his hands.

"Okay boys! Listen up! Find the Negro woman and her child and bring them back to me _alive_. Anything you think your pretty little wives would like, take with you. We're gonna have fun tonight!" And with that said by Mr. Guthrie, the rest of the men cheered and stormed into the home. I could hear furniture break and windows shatter. When the men couldn't find my mama nor me, they lit the house on fire. They laughed as they watched the fire blaze into every room, hungrily licking at the wooden frame of the house until only ashes were left.

I walked back to where Mama and I were hiding. The barking of dogs seemed to get closer and closer. My mother hugged me tighter and sung a low breathy tune.

Everything went black again.

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I bolted upright. I was in the woods, out of that nightmare.

"Mickey, have ya seen 'er yet?"

"Oh no!" Shoot! Did they hear me? "Agh! I need to get to Hattie and Etta's, quick!" Quickly, but silently, I stood up. My head is still achy and little black swirls are coming in and out of my vision. I slowly creep across leaves, cringing every time one crinkles under my feet. I notice that one of my shoes is missing.

"Hey! Lookee here, it's the dame's shoe!"

Crap.

"What direction was that shoe pointing?"

_Oh nooo_.

"Into them there woods."

That was my cue to get going. And I booked it.

I ran through newly fallen leaves, hating that they were still stiff enough to crunch. I jumped from rock to rock in order to pass over Brook's Creek. As I ran faster and faster, I felt my spirit rejuvenating. I wanted to laugh hysterically, knowing I was free and knowing they would never catch me! The moon is my friend, and she is guiding me to refuge. I'm _so _close to Hattie and Etta's, I can almost taste the pungent incense they use.

"But, _ugh_, I need, _ugh_, to take a break," All that running has me breathing hard. I bend over with my hands on my thighs, licking my dry lips. I squeeze my eyes shut but quickly reopen them when I see images of my, my…what was it? I've head episodes like that before, like when I was in the woods. It feels like I'm in a dream, but at the same time I feel like I really am in the past. I shake the thoughts from my head. Whatever it was, it was good to see my mama's face, even if it was during one of the worst times of my life.

"Courtney! It is _soo _lovely to see you again! How's…what happened to you?"

I looked down at myself. The ends of my dress are tattered and weighed down my arm. Strands of loose hair are obscuring my vision. And I notice the blood on my wrist dried. I guess Etta did too.

"Oh my, oh my, we have got to get you cleaned up missy. That wrist of yours looks terrible! Ow, how I can't help but cringe when I look at it, _heehee_. Let me guess? You took a fall? _Heehee _oh you klutzy girl! Though I can't speak, _heehee_, just five minutes ago I tripped over a dead soldier, _heehee_!"

"What!?" A dead soldier!

"I tripped over a dead soldier, an empty beer bottle. Now stop being silly and get a wiggle on, Courtney, we need to doll you up! Tonight, Hattie and I have a special costumer, and we're trying to real in the big dough."

"He's rich? Who's the Egg?"

"He's the son of some farmer down South. After the Great War, he went to New York City, started a businesses selling cars, made some dough, and is now living the life of Mr. Big," Etta paused. She shifted her eyes back-and-forth, as if anyone were around to hear. She leaned into me and loudly whispered, "Though, I heard he may be running a speakeasy in the back of his car shop. I also heard through the grapevine that he got his cash from this wealthy French lady that he took on as a lover. But I don't believe in that story. She's supposed to be twice his age, and anyone with eyes as blue and beautiful as his could get a better woman than…"

"What color are his eyes?" I'm starting to get scared.

"There blue. And his hair, oh his hair! It is so thick and black! He has got this masculine jaw, and such broad shoulders. This man is a man, Courtney, and this man has got too much pride to go after some French broad just for his money. Let me tell you…"

I could no longer pay attention. Etta has to be talking about Mickey. There is no other possible person she could be talking about, unless it was _him_, and that is impossible_. No_. I cannot be here, I must leave.

"What do you mean you must leave?"

What?! Am I talking out loud, "Am I talking out loud?"

Etta just stared at me blankly, her green eyes quizzically bright. Then she blinked and her face scrunched into a look of oddity and confusion, "I think it is time to go and get you cleaned up. C'mon Courtney, Hattie is finishing up with our present costumer and Mickey should be here soon." So it is Mickey. "Maybe you can help us with him."

"But…"

"No! No 'buts'. We need to make some nice dough tonight, and your pretty face'll warm Mickey's heart up, and loosen up his pocket," Etta said, looking pleased and determined. I knew there was no way I could refuse her, especially since I need her and Hattie to help me with my issues.

"Yes Etta, I would love to help you out tonight."

"That's what I like to hear! Now let me get one of Hattie's best dresses for you."

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**Author's Note:**

**Some words/phrases are 1920's slang. I got them off of . **

**Crawfish** **étouffée; A popular dish from New Orleans**

**"**_**Je ne sais pas Maman"; **_**French for "I do not know Mom" **

"_**Non Maman"**_**; French for "No Mom"**

_**grand-mère; **_**French for "grandmother"**

**(all curtsey of the google translator)**

**In this story, Courtney is going to come from New Orleans roots. As a child, she ****was raised with a Christian **_**and**_** Voodoo religious background. ****Loa are voodoo spirits who act as intermediates between humans and Bondye, the ****creator in voodoo religion. Loa are not deities. There are different classifications ****(families) of loa. Loa Marinette is a Petro loa (very "aggressive and warlike"). Boarbristles are a protectant against curses. ****Mambos are voodoo priestesses. ****Read more about the voodoo religion here: ****wiki/Loa**

**Disclaimer: I am in NO way an expert on voodoo, I just researched it so, yeah, ****haha**

**Disclaimer II: I am NOT from New Orleans so I am no expert on it either lol**

**If any of my info is wrong or bad or something, please comment or PM me!**

**I should also clarify what happened if it got confusing… Courtney went to go see friends for help, met racist tools who wanted to hurt/rape her, she ran, she passed out, she went into the past to a time in her childhood when other racists wanted to hurt her and her mom (will tie in with entire plot I promise), wakes up, makes it to friend's place, finds out friend's next client is leader of the racist tools, who also happens to look exactly like "her lost soldier".**

**Please please please comment and let me know how to make my story better! I'm knew to writing and all the advice I can get would be lovely! Thanks sooo much let me know if you would like me to continue.**

**~ Marlynn **


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